


To Ink One's Clothing

by writinwaters (Anithene)



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Introspection, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-18 04:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anithene/pseuds/writinwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  He doesn't want to think of her as some stain on his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Ink One's Clothing

 

Before Hisana died, he’d never thought that, _she_ , too, may have already passed.

It takes him by surprise one day, a month and a half after his wife’s death. It came to him for no particular reason, but Byakuya is thankful it had not been during battle. He would have surely been struck if it had, the thought so startling and cold.

He spills ink on his uniform and excuses himself to clean it up, the black spattering on his fingers and dripping onto the hardwood floor. Ukitake does not inquire about it when he returns, but the ink has left a stain on the blackness of his hakama, so dark it can’t be seen.

The irony of it almost makes him laugh. He doesn’t.

Yoruichi has become just like the ink on his clothing. He knows it’s there, the frustration and questions of her betrayal, but the evidence of it can only be seen by him. Indeed, she has already been erased by the Gotei 13 in manner and in memory; Soi Fon has taken her former place as Captain of the Second Division, and no one has heard anything from the Shihouin clan since their Lady departed. Not even her name has been spoken. 

Byakuya is fast on his way to becoming a Captain. Ukitake has estimated it to be a year, two, perhaps. He is now the Kuchiki clan head, and already, he is close to finding Hisana’s nameless, faceless sister. He has made so much more progress than _her._ Byakuya will keep surpassing her even now, when she is unable to see his progress.

He is not a boy.

Byakuya tells himself that, when her laughter fills the wind at night, shudders against the doors of his bedroom. Perhaps she really has died, somewhere, by what means he has no care to imagine, and she haunts him in death as she had done in life.

The laughter is not Hisana’s, because she never laughed. 

He is not a boy who can be provoked by stolen hair ties and games of tag. Byakuya is the new leader of the most influential family in all of the Seireitei. He’s achieved shikai, the petals of Senbonzakura as beautiful as -

Byakuya sucks in a breath and his hand pauses in writing. No, not like her. He is nothing like her. No part of him is or will ever be like Yoruichi. The strokes of his kanji become quick and exact, this newfound determination to be everything she was not burning through his skin. Byakuya half expects the paper to catch fire, and he can feel Ukitatke’s gaze on him the rest of the shift.

The day ends without event, and Ukitake makes no attempt at conversation.

That night is the same as any other.

Byakuya’s hair falls dark and loose over his shoulders as he looks out his bedroom windows. The night sky is clouded and murky, as if some great god has stirred up sand from the bottom of it.

He almost sighs, but catches himself mid-breath. 

He wonders, briefly, if _she_ , too, is gazing at the sky as he is, thoughts straying to days in the past, when she was his demon-cat and he a hotheaded, foul-mouthed teenager. Byakuya wonders if her memories are the same.

Byakuya dismisses the notion and shuts the doors, hands sliding from the sleeves of his sleeping robe to do so. The color of it reminds him of her hair, a deep, luxurious purple. It was cut short the last time he saw her, but perhaps by now it has grown long enough to warrant being tied back.

Yoruichi still has his hair tie.

Byakuya sits at a writing desk, but the brush is motionless in his hand. The lamplight is soft on the parchment, and the shadows curl, much like cats, into the corners of his room. He squints at the paper before him, as if doing so can will ideas into his head, some inspiration to write tonight, but when neither comes, he sets his mouth and puts the materials away.

It’s all her fault, he decides. Everything is her fault, somehow, and Byakuya tells himself this because he is sure she is dead. Yoruichi is _presumed_ dead, and even if she isn’t, there is a lack of space where she once was, and that is good enough for him. She’s gone, and not even her name has been spoken since she left. Yoruichi Shihouin is gone.

He tells himself this, but he’s never said it aloud. Saying it would make it real, and that is something he doesn’t want to face.

Facing it would mean he acknowledges it, that Yoruichi affects him even now, although it’s been years since her departure. Byakuya knows it shouldn’t make him so angry, yet it does, but he is _Byakuya Kuchiki_ now, and expressing anger is beyond him. 

He is no longer a boy.

(He isn’t).

Only a boy would feel so much resentment, jealousy and _inferiority_ towards a woman who’s gone, who still laughs in his head at night and who still has his hair tie. Byakuya resents her for leaving him at such a tumultuous time in his life, he feels jealous that another could possibly be of such importance to break the law for (and it wasn’t him), and although he hates to admit it, he still feels like an inferior cub, watching his lioness from the bushes as she dances around all his accomplishments.

He doubts she has changed very much. Maybe she’s a little more serious, a little taller, a grown-up face with grown-up eyes.

Byakuya feels old, like an impossibly long length of time has passed since he was that hotheaded teenager chasing a demon-cat. He has become a rebellious young man in love, a husband, a widower, a leader and soon a Captain, while she is likely still teasing boys into games of tag and lounging in the sun as a cat.

An old memory leaps to the front of his mind at the thought; the first time he saw her transform from a cat, she had been laying in the Kuchiki gardens, sunbathing, black fur surely as soft as it looked. He, being a haughty, self-important teenager, attempted to pick the cat up to have a servant dispose of it outside the estate. No sooner had he grasped it by the scruff had it opened its eyes, _laughed,_ and called him a rude little noble for disturbing its nap.

It was also the first time he’d seen a woman naked. She teased him about it until the very day she left.

Byakuya feels the corner of his mouth twitch, just a little. Although she tested the limits of his patience and had no sense of duty, he admired Yoruichi for her beauty and intelligence, the strength in her shoulders when she fought. She was no one’s fool and could outfight the toughest brute who was stupid enough to challenge her. Yoruichi was a Captain for a reason.

And then, all at once, the thought of her being dead hits him like a kido blast to the chest.

Byakuya presses his lips together, resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the desk. His gray eyes shift to the shihakusho hung upon the wall, searches for the ink stain the servants couldn’t lift. He gives up after a moment, unable to find it. This time, the irony does make him laugh, but it’s a short burst of air without humor or feeling. Even the stain which reminds him of Yoruichi is elusive.

He doesn’t want to think of her as some stain on his life, or a poem he can pull out and read when the mood suits him. She was his mentor and a friend, and he already has one woman to mourn.

Byakuya ignores the rolling in his stomach at that thought. He bows his head, hair slipping over his pale face, and closes his eyes, breathing steadily through his nose. It’s too late to think about this. He has work tomorrow, and the thought of Ukitake’s warm, soft eyes on him all day makes him frown. Byakuya Kuchiki does not accept pity, from anyone. He’s not a boy.

Yoruichi’s laughter rattles the windows all night.


End file.
